


A New Lord of the Rings

by Eruanna_the_Fool



Category: Lord of the rin, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Consensual Sex, Dark Frodo, Dark! Frodo, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Evil, Evil Frodo, Evil! Frodo, I write this during bad days, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Manipulative Relationship, No beta we die like Celebrimbor, Parallels to The Silmarillion, The One Ring - Freeform, The Silmarillion References, War of the Ring, no beta we die like Boromir
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25400062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eruanna_the_Fool/pseuds/Eruanna_the_Fool
Summary: Gandalf has fallen and the Ringbearer’s heart is pierced by darkness. With the power to wield the Ring and a faithful servant, Frodo claims to be the new lord of the rings.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Frodo Baggins, Frodo Baggins & Merry Brandybuck & Sam Gamgee & Pippin Took, Frodo Baggins/Boromir (Son of Denethor II), Frodo Baggins/Gimli (Son of Glóin), Frodo Baggins/Legolas Greenleaf, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

Beads of sweat rolled down Aragorn’s neck as the pungent smell of athelas wafted through the evening air. Frodo’s breath came out in desperate wheezing by this moment, and the other hobbits were weeping helplessly for their friend. Not that Aragorn paid them any mind. His full attention is on Frodo, hands uncharacteristically trembling more and more as the waxing moon rises in the sky.

“Please,” pleaded Pippin. “Estë — anyone who shall listen, I will offer anything if he will be spared!” The poor hobbit uttered many names of the Valar that he knew, promising servitude and anything he can offer.

Legolas felt pity over him, holding him back still from running away and to his ill cousin.

Sam was allowed to crouch beside his master, holding on to his paling hand as one who needed to be anchored to something to save himself from a deadly fall. Indeed, he looked ever so miserable. His usually nervous, rapid tongue was curled up in his mouth in a soundless pout. Tears streamed down his cheeks yet he was still as a rock, just holding Frodo’s hand to his jaw.

Aragorn ghosted a hand over Frodo’s forehead. His eyes were shut tight in concentration, taking the hobbit’s free hand in his other and holding it to his chest. “Frodo Drogo’s son, awake! Your spirit shall ever go stronger, though grievous be your hurt. I call upon you.”

Frodo gave an answering gasp, back arching into the chilly air and whimpering what might be a coaxed response of the remaining life in him. Aragorn’s struggle was evident in his face as he continued to bring Frodo back.

It is with the hands of a healer and the heart of a friend that he willed all that he learned to tear through the darkness in him, and he can feel his connexion wavering as Frodo’s laboured breathing reduced to tiny whimpers of pain. His own breathing picked up, and a weak groan was forced from his throat as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. The crushed kingsfoil fell dismally from his hand in a sticky heap on the ground.

Frodo’s ghastly eyes faded slowly into the black night. Aragorn stared at him in a moment before falling to his knees in repect and failure. He kissed him on the brow and rose without a word.

That act of farewell and resignation meant a lot to the fate of the Fellowship of the Ring.

Under eaves of Lothlorien in the winter eve, a fell air hung around man, dwarf, elf, and hobbit. A sharp spell of grief befell their heavy hearts once more that fateful day.

Sam’s soundless reverie ended and he shamelessly burst into a fresh wave of tears at the limp form of Frodo. He looked fair and at peace, but he did not like it one bit. He would rather see to his master while he is tired; for when he is weary of worldly burdens, he could attend to him. But now, he felt useless and broken that he cannot do anything but to weep for his lost master.

“Mr. Frodo!” he sobbed into his shoulder, “Medear Frodo!”

Aragorn turned his back to them, looking up into the starless blackness above. Faintly, as if in a faraway dream, he heard Pippin’s shaking accusations against the Valar. The bitter cold air was crisp in his ears, and his sweat cooled down into chilling traces. His eyes burned and his head felt light.

 _‘Was Pippin right? Did the Valar truly not care for the fate of Middle-Earth?’_ thought Aragorn. More pulses of pain assaulted his head.

He was exhausted, disheartened, and in no condition to travel more. In their flight from Moria, they walked three hours into the Golden Wood, just enough to give them cover and momentary comfort. He had tended to Sam’s orc-wound after Gimli heated some water. Then the beauty of Frodo’s mithril shirt was revealed to them, relieving Aragorn of his strife for a short while.

Little did they know how bad the troll’s assault really had been. Frodo had endured it through the snow-covered terrain. Aragorn realised how toilsome it must truly have been for him, and his admiration for the hobbit grew stronger. He had not said a thing about it, but his shoulder must have been in excruciating pain in the cold. More so after the fell stirring.

They had all watched Gandalf fall into the shadows, disappearing into depths and never to be seen again. He wondered what the wizard would have done if he had been here. He shook his head. No use thinking about it now.

When they passed Kheled-zâram, the deep Mirrormere, Frodo’s face turned grave. “Shadow of the Morgul, shadow of the Morgul,” he had muttered under his breath before he collapsed on the bank. If Gimli had not hauled him with his strong hands, the hobbit would have fallen like Gandalf — only into water instead of fire. Indeed the attack of the cave troll stirred the darkness within Frodo that they all had thought had been banished completely in the house of Lord Elrond.

Only this time, no leech as great and powerful as an elf lord was present. And not any help but dried athelas that had lost their virtue can aid them. The hands of the king bring healing, but Frodo was very far into the shadow and the shard of the Morgul blade had already pierced his heart.

Is it not cruel to be robbed of two valuable companions in one day? What shall happen now as they continue? How will they carry on without the wisdom of both Gandalf and the Ringbearer?

And the cruelest question that has plagued all their minds: _Who shall now carry the Ring?_

 _‘Evil fate begets evil deeds,’_ a faint voice whispered. Aragorn shivered. He doubted it was because of the cold.

Hobbit-voices and soft sniffing were all that could be heard around them, the wind bringing them chillier gusts despite the mysterious warmth of the Golden Wood. To these people, it was the end of Frodo Baggins.

Legolas’ dimmed eyes did not leave Frodo’s form. What he thought, no one can tell, but his face was difficult to look at and even Gimli avoided him. They had never seen the elf burdened with so much anguish.

All hope was lost until a terrible cry pierced the gloom.

Their forms all wavered in cold fear upon hearing the unwelcome sound. Even the most stouthearted of them quailed under its echoing cry. Aragorn cannot be mistaken. He knows that sound well, and can never forget the darkening terror it brought upon him.

But this time around, the shrill cry did not come with the beating of great wings or in evil harmony with black horse-hoofs. Aragorn turned and saw the mirroring horror painting the others’ faces.

_‘Evil fate.’_

It was as if time stopped, and if any of them made a single move — any sort of movement that could indicate that they yet live — perhaps it shall be released and continue moving. But none of them dared, cowering on the ground, tear-stained faces turned grim.

In the midst of the clearing, sitting over thick layers of blanket was an unlikely sight. If it was possible, Aragorn’s blood ran even colder.

The ceasing of the unforgiving gusts of winter had escaped their attention, and several gasps were not then carried away by the wind.

For there sat a disoriented Frodo, as if drawn from a faraway dream instead of the deep chasms of an unknown realm, lidded eyes trained on the lines of trees ahead in an unfocused daze. Aragorn could not be certain but he perceived obscured orbs of smoky silver instead of the lively blue for a second before it dissolved in a blink.

His neck craned disturbingly slowly to the side and Aragorn shivered. All was deadly silent as those blue eyes looked straight into _his_. The ranger could not understand how it made him unconsciously step back. But having a clear view of Frodo’s face unraveled an unreasonable thought.

_‘Those were not Frodo’s eyes.’_

He supposed he must say something — _anything_ — but what the right words were never presented themselves to his puzzled mind. Almost gratefully received, the hobbit spared him his internal debate and addressed him in a warm voice — Frodo’s voice. 

“Strider,” muttered Frodo. Then in a clearer and louder voice, “Strider. . .you called me back from an unpleasant dream. Thank you.”

And now he truly was grateful for the consolation. He willed all doubt away and strode forward, falling to his knees and embracing the cold hobbit. “My heart is glad to hear your voice grace us again, Frodo,” said Aragorn.

“To what does this bound me? Pray tell whilst you have the chance,” asked Frodo once the man pulled away.

“Nothing, dear friend,” answered Aragorn with a fond smile. “When I offered you my allegiance at the House of Elrond Peredhel, I gave my service to aid you along with my comradeship.”

“Look at me.”

Aragorn did not notice that his eyes were averted from the hobbit, and was startled by his request. He complied and held his gaze, but whatever it was that he had to say was delayed. The moment was ended when Sam, Pippin, and Merry all but jumped on Frodo.

“Master Frodo!” howled Sam. “Oh, medear, I was so very scared and lonely!” Sam was not ashamed of his affection when he buried his curly head in the older hobbit’s chest. He was shaking with relief, muttering things only he understood.

Merry wiped the tears still streaming down his pale cheeks. His mouth was downturned, his brows furrowed and his chest heaved in growing hiccups. He tried to stop crying but the tears were uncontrollable.

Pippin, however, buried his head in Frodo’s ankles, gripping the breeches tightly and thanking whoever and whatever allowed this miracle to happen. “We thought you were dead. Nothing has gone more _wrong_ ,” he sobbed. That was all he managed to say.

Frodo appeared to be moved by his friends’ love and released a huge breath. All the tension in the Fellowship dissipated and they began to pamper Frodo as Aragorn stepped back to allow them space.

Frodo stroked Pippin’s hair with his left hand, and the other propped up behind him supporting his weight. “It’s all right, Pip. Aragorn saved me. If what you said was true, then it would be his fault,” said Frodo jokingly.

“Oh, do not jest, you disaffected old hobbit!” chided Pippin. “We were terrified!” Merry proved his point with a miserable hitch of breath.

Aragorn told himself the relief he felt was of Frodo’s evident safety and not the distance between them as he tended to the fire. After all, that was what he intended when he called upon Frodo in his unrest. “I will take first watch. You should rest,” he announced.

There were no protests other than Sam’s insistence that he be awakened after two hours for his turn. Bedrolls were unfolded and the company settled about until their hearts were fully sated by the comfort of the reassurance of the Ringbearer’s warm presence. To them, it is a most precious gift after losing one so dear.

Aragorn watched the dance of the flames as the others fell asleep at last. All of them were at ease except the watcher, for he was the only one who did not forget about the terrible sound they heard earlier.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam woke up from a dream he could not remember. Sometime in his sleep, he had somehow drawn the blanket over his head, so that it allowed him to breathe but the air grew stuffy and uncomfortable. He scrunched his eyes shut in concentration, trying to recall his dream, and maybe if he tried hard enough, his mind will be led back to that obscure place.

  
When he decided it was not going to work, he grunted sleepily and pulled the warm blanket away from him. The air is now far cozier, less chilly than when Boromir started the fire.  
Night covered the forest, the only source of light being the angry flames eating away the fir-wood greedily. The silence was suspiciously eerie, as if the beasts and bugs of the forest refused to dwell near their camp.

  
‘Well, I wouldn’t blame them, no,’ Sam thought. ‘If I may say so, this is the queerest company they’ll ever stumble upon.’

  
The moon had already sunk low on the horizon; and Sam estimated more than two hours had passed since his head hit the hay. He craned his neck to search for Strider, and sure enough, the man stayed where he had last seen him.

  
Aragorn leaned on a tree trunk in front of the fire, his right hand lightly resting on a piece of wood, so that when the flames grew low, he would be prepared to feed it.

  
The warm glow illuminated his face in a way that made him look old and weary. But Sam could not deny if he wanted that it also made him look handsome and ancient – like a king of old risen back to life to once again walk the lands of Middle-Earth.

  
His neck muscles were taut and his face unmoving, but it was in his eyes that Sam saw the fatigue he had been hiding behind strong hands and voice.

  
“You ought to have roused me,” said Sam. “Go on, get some wink.” When the man tilted his mouth to protest, he added: “I’m sure you’re the one who will lead us through tricky woods and murky bogs after –” then he paused as if refusing to finish his well-read sentence and blushed. “What I’m saying is we don’t want no leader taking us to tumble over a cliff just ‘cause he ain’t getting some sleep, if you take my meaning.”

  
Aragorn looked at him from the corner of his eyes. “I will take your advice if you would not think of me as a clumsy barfly, Master Gamgee,” he said.

  
Sam felt heat creep up from his neck to his cheeks. Indeed, when they first met, he was wary of the ranger. But he strongly believed that he had every right to be.

  
“I don’t mean to mock you, sir,” said Sam. “It’s just I haven’t seen you take a wink for days – even when you lay on your bedroll, you stay awake thinking. And I see you’re exhausted.”

  
“All right. Stay close to the fire then. You’re freezing.” Abandoning the tinderbox, he stood and retired quietly to his mat and slept. Sam noticed that his shoulders did not relax nor did his spine bend.

* * *

Time ran slowly for Samwise as he sat listening to the crackling of the embers. With nothing to do he was left with the memories of home, which made his stomach feel cold (and not to mention, hungry). Himself, Jolly Cotton and his sister, Rosie paddling at the Pool at Bywater; the Gaffer taking him to the Green Dragon after a long day’s work; and his momma’s cooking. Oh, what he would do to have some of those potato pielettes again!  
His back was turned to the others, so his horror is great when a firm hand clasped his shoulder.

  
His yelp of surprise would have woken the others had Frodo not clamped the same cold hand over his mouth.

  
“You must not wake the others, Sam,” said Frodo in a low voice.

  
Sam blushed.

  
“Mr. Frodo, you should be a’restin’.”

  
“As I have done. Up! I have a task for you.” And so obediently Sam rose to do whatever his master’s bidding is.

  
Frodo is not as pale as he was before, Sam noted, though he was certain the hobbit held a certain ghastly air around him. He was still too pale for his liking and his eyes were rather too calm. He was glad to see his master undamaged, but inwardly he wished for the other to go back to his usual colour in the morning.

“Do you know of the plant *catsbloom?” Frodo asked. At Sam’s nod, he continued. “I want you to find some for me. I am sure it is quite abundant in places as damp as this, but I am sure your eyes are finer than mine at spotting things that grow.”

  
Sam frowned. “Do you find it hard to doze off, Mr. Frodo?”

  
“Not at all.”

  
“Then what would you want some catsbloom for –”

  
Frodo got so close to Sam that the latter took an involuntary step back. Panicking, a flurry of words escaped his mouth in an attempt to make an appropriate apology for whatever wrong he said. He really didn’t want to displease dear Mr. Frodo, and now he looked angry for some reason.

  
“Samwise,” called Frodo in that warm voice. Unusually warmer as he touched his cheek with that cold hand. A shiver ran down his spine. Now Frodo laid his forehead against his, bending slightly down to his height, and caressed his cheek with loving strokes. Even though Sam already had his eyes closed, he could still feel the way those bright blue eyes looked into him, boring into his very being and twisting any question and suspicion into submission. Warm wisps of breath fanned his nose and lips, sweet and intoxicating. “Sweet Samwise, you have always been a good servant and friend.” His other hand crawled up to his hair, toying with his yellow locks like he would a delicate flower. “And I am glad to have you – now, and at the end of all things.” At this Sam gave a frightened look, but Frodo embraced him and hushed his fears.

  
“It doesn’t have to be like that. But I would need your help, Sam,” said Frodo, and Sam could hear the weight and sadness in his voice. Frodo pulled away but did not let his shoulders go. Those blue eyes stared straight into his own, saying things he wasn’t sure his own mind can comprehend. “I need you.”

  
Sam nodded and reluctantly left his touch. “I shall watch over the fire as you go,” he heard Frodo saying, uncertain if he understood in that state of bliss and sudden calmness.  
Daleweed was not hard to find, as Frodo had suspected. Sam wasn’t sure how much his master required so he unrooted as many as he can carry. Going back to the camp, he found that the others were still fast asleep and that Frodo had washed himself and wore new garments. Frodo immediately knew when he had entered the clearing and smiled. He took the weeds from Sam and tossed them as silently as he could into the fire, leaping back and raising a pocket-handkerchief to his nose and mouth. The fire instantly ate at the fresh grass, leaping up a head and producing a column of white clouds. The air was still, but the scent was inescapable inside the campsite. The sleeping forms did not move, and those who scrunched their faces in their slumber easily relaxed.

  
Sam gasped, and Frodo scolded him. “Cover your nose, you foolish hobbit,” he whispered as he had pulled him away, far enough to escape the fragrant fumes of the burning weed. Once safe, Sam worriedly asked, “What did you do that for?”

  
Frodo laid his cloak like a blanket on the ground. “They are weary, and in great grief. But if I had suggested: ‘let us rest for the day for you are fatigued’, do you believe they would have listened? The answer is no. Aragorn, and perhaps Boromir and Gimli, would say that we must move as the sun rises.” Now Frodo pulled Sam down to sit on the cloak. He rested a hand on the younger hobbit’s shoulder.

  
“Is it not kind to allow them a few hours’ comfort, though unrequested is needed?”  
But Sam was still worried and could not look up or answer. It was not until a pair of lips touched his that he showed that he was still capable of moving. The kiss was chaste, swift but tender. And it was over in a second. When Frodo released his lips, they were left slightly hanging open, and it seemed as if the touch lingered there.

  
“I need you, Sam.” With that, Sam allowed himself to be laid down on the cloak, welcoming long-awaited caresses and attention, basking in the sudden warmth amidst the cold, and surrendering to the trust for his master’s wisdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *catsbloom is a descendant of the long-forgotten flower _lissuin_. Its fragrant flowers grow pink or white and grow on damp forest floors. In the Shire, the roots of catsbloom are used to make a powerful sleeping draught. 
> 
> (A derivation by the fic author; unrelated to any of Tolkien's work. However, _lissuin_ can be found in Unfinished Tales.)


	3. Chapter 3

A far cry into the shadow tore through his subconscious, and if naught can wake his leaden limbs, then the painful tugging in his gut must be borne of the most sensitive cause. Aragorn gasped, the attempt to draw back his eyelids resulting only in his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

Warmth caressed the skin over his pulse, just beneath his left ear. “Hmm. . .”

The vibrating hum came from a dark-haired figure, Aragorn faintly observed as he forced his eyes to remain half-open. It made his head hurt further, the dusk light assaulting his pupils harshly. When the fog over his vision cleared but a little, he saw a pale hobbit examining him much as a physician would, moving with purpose and little pondering.

“Frodo. . .” Aragorn’s voice rasped, his throat dry with – seemingly – days’ time of disuse. He had no memory of what preceded his insensibility and was not certain what to say. _What happened? What has overtaken us?_ But he felt an overwhelming doubt deep in his gut that somehow had an inkling of this unforeseen darkness. Frodo finally turned to look him in the eyes, folding a grey rag over a tincture before packing it in his satchel.

“We would not require that. Not anytime soon, at least,” said Frodo, offering a small smile that did not reassure Aragorn one bit. The hobbit looked healthier now, though he still carried a certain pallor that the man did not like. Frodo ran a hand over his brow, combing back hair that clung irritably over his eyes. Aragorn almost wished the touch would linger.

“Where are the others?” he asked. A simple question that still did not quail the incessant thrumming just beyond his mortal body.

“They are resting – just like you.” Frodo seemed content with keeping him company for a while, adjusting himself in a more comfortable position on the cave floor.

_Cave floor?_

Seldom does the earth betray Aragorn, so when it failed to whisper to him the guidance that he sought, he surmised that there must be something else hindering his connection to the land. Something inside him that made him feel nauseous and unsafe. In a moment of contempt he made to seize the hobbit’s hand away from him but found that he could not.

_Oh, Valar. No._

He felt more than saw the ropes that bound his arms and ankles. If he had the strength to reach them, he was not sure he could untie them himself. He fought to keep calm, not noticing that his breathing had turned sporadic until the hobbit shushed.

“Shh. Calm down, Strider,” said Frodo, running his hands up and down his arms to soothe him. “Would you like to sit up?”

Aragorn released a strangled noise in his throat, making the hobbit laugh.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Frodo carefully stationed the man against the cave wall, noting the stiffness in the man’s muscles. It reminded him of a wolf preparing to strike. “Calm down, Strider. It’s alright. You must be confused.”

“You knock me out then bound me, and you wish me to calm down?” Aragorn snarled. “What is it that you wish to achieve with this treason?”

Frodo’s face hardened. “Ah. I hoped our conversation would be less ill-natured, my friend. As much as I would like to keep my business my own, I must admit that it is now shared with you. As comrades and brothers.”

The lilting voice chilled Aragorn.

“Middle-Earth faces great peril. Peril greater than I or you.” Frodo’s eyes took on a vacant stare. “And if I could help it, I wish to cause no further harm by taking such rash actions.

“Saruman – the _rat ­_ – has begun to foolishly leave his eyrie, away from his nest, to fly on his own. Not long from now his slaves will swarm the lands in hopes of intercepting the Ring before It goes too far south. The council’s original plan is bound to fail.”

Aragorn still found it difficult to force his eyes open. Sluggishly, he asked, “And how have you come to all that?”

Frodo smiled. “I _saw._ ”

Aragorn let out a whine from the back of his throat. It might have been a growl, but anyone who might have heard would not be able to tell.

“Even now the Eye turns its flaming gaze towards the Secret Valley. What will he think? Huh? One of the Lord Elrond’s sons? Lord Glorfindel? Perhaps Elrond himself. . .” Frodo trailed off whimsically.

“What will you achieve by holding us hostage?” Aragorn said with as much menace as he could. “Leverage? Or will you keep us as your toys, little one?”

Pain flared up his cheeks. When the world stopped spinning and he could open his eyes once again, he saw the cold fury in the hobbit’s stoic face. Never once had he called him that. Or anything as degrading. It was not the words that priced the strike, but the cheek and offence behind it.

Frodo reached out to stroke his reddening cheek. “Because you are my friends. And I don’t want to lose you.”

A strange sense of panic rose within Aragorn as Frodo began to leave, but not without a kiss against his forehead. “Rest up, Strider.”

Immediately after the words were said, Aragorn unwillingly fell back into unconsciousness.


End file.
